


Still remains

by roadsoftrial



Series: It always takes a little time [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Healing, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Post-Dawn, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 04:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18024482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roadsoftrial/pseuds/roadsoftrial
Summary: They don’t talk about Ignis, because Cor remembers in vivid details the eruption he caused the last time he tried. He knows, deep down, that it’s gnawing at Gladio, that their unfinished business has been weighing on him, even more so now that his head is clearer, lighter than it used to be.That’s why it had comes as a surprise, when Ignis’ name escapes Gladio’s lips over lunch, one late summer day.(In which Cor helps Gladio mend the bridges that they had no choice but to burn.)





	Still remains

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aliatori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliatori/gifts), [chiii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiii/gifts).



> Written for day 3 of [Gladio Rarepair Week](https://gladiorarepairweek.tumblr.com/) for the prompt 'Aftermath

The drive down to the village is uncharacteristically quiet.

It’s not the overbearing kind of quiet they’ve known a bit too intimately in the past, the kind that’s filled with dread and unsaid words, with too-tight lids ready to burst open at every bump on the road, ready to make a mess of everything.

This is a different kind of silence.

(They’re a different kind of men, now.)

It’s… mindful, Gladio would probably suggest, and contemplative (like he likes to say, nowadays, when Cor comes to sit at his side whenever he feels Gladio sliding back into the treacherous comfort of old habits), but _nervous_ is the word Cor would choose, in all of his down-to-earthness. Nervous, with hints of anticipation trying as hard as it can not to dip into apprehension.

Cor knows there isn’t much use in trying to convince Gladio that he has nothing to worry about, that only good things can come out of what they’re headed towards. There isn’t much use, because Gladio already knows, because he’s aware that his jitters aren’t rational, but some things can’t be helped, Cor has accepted long ago, so he’d rather focus on things that _can_ be helped, nowadays.

(Like the slow circle of his thumb against the outside of Gladio’s thigh, stopping it in its tense, anxious bounce; like the slow rhythm of his breath, for Gladio to fall into when his own tries to run for the hills.)

They reach the village with some time to spare, which could be a good thing as far as Cor is concerned, as long as he can keep Gladio distracted long enough to stop him from wandering in the dim lit corners of his own mind. Cor parks the truck in front of the Crow’s Nest, one of the few that survived the darkness, removes the key from the ignition, and waits. He turns towards Gladio, who looks at him, a tentative smile on his lips, but with tinges of restlessness in his eyes. Cor’s hand finds the back of Gladio’s neck, scratches lightly at the short, freshly cut strands of hair, and he can almost detect Gladio’s worries evaporating from his tense shoulders, his eyes fluttering shut, his smile now serene and soft.

They exit the car in silence, leaning against the hood as they wait.

Cor keeps quiet, his hand resting in the curve of Gladio’s back conveying more than any words he could come up with.

They wait.

*

They don’t talk much about the years that followed the Dawn.

Gladio doesn’t remember most of it anyway; remembers blurs, and fits of all too lucid rage, but none of the too many days spent in a dizzying haze, unreachable, (inconsolable), unwilling (unable) to come home.

(Cor remembers it all too well, Gladio, straying as far as his feet would take him, and the disappearing without a word, for days at a time, to get away from the ghosts (to drown away the ghosts), despite the knowledge that they couldn’t be outran, only embraced (but some things are easier known than accepted).)

The parts he does remember, he’d rather not bring up, and that’s a desire Cor understands better than anyone else. He’s spent a lifetime learning to tame his demons, and will gladly watch over Gladio as he learns to do the same, for as long as it’ll take.

Out of what they did talk about, after reaching rock bottom and finding the strength to start batting their feet again, they’ve settled on two things: the past stays in the past, and is not to be dwelled on; and there isn’t, nor will there ever be, a need for guilt or apologies, because Cor refuses to hold Gladio’s own grief against him, and will not allow him to hurt himself any more doing the same.

They don’t talk much about the year they tried to spend in Insomnia after the Dawn, about the year Gladio spent head high, eyes half-lidded, neck all but broken, hoping, perhaps, he’d find what was lost, what used to fill him up with purpose and pride, buried somewhere amongst the wreckage. A year spent trying to carry on a dead legacy, trying to uphold titles that bore no more meaning than the savage way the Lucis Caelum bloodline had been choked out of existence. A year Cor had to spend sitting back, trying to carry on as he’d always had, watching Gladio carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, nodding along when Gladio would insist he wasn’t standing on the edge of a tall, all too tall cliff, both of his legs about to give.

Trying to revive Insomnia had turned out to be a much crueler ordeal than any scourge infested monster either of them had had to face during the ten years of darkness. Cor had let many things slide during that time, closed his eyes on many a self-destructive behaviour, because he’d found just as much comfort in them, because at times, they were the only things that kept them going, because there’d been an end in sight, then, a deadline to their hardship.

But it hadn’t been until they’d found themselves thrown in the middle of a life of peace that they’d realised just how foreign the mere concept had become to them, a new currency neither of them knew how to spend.

(Cor could argue he’d never truly known peace, could argue some wars spread far beyond battlefields and peace treaties, could argue, bitterly, that he was granted an inflexible sense of detachment for his trouble, that this curse was the reason he’d been able to walk away from duty when Gladio hadn’t.)

He’d tried not to meddle, as he’d learned to do over the years, out of respect for Gladio, out of desire not to let his experiences and mistakes taint the way Gladio pulled lessons out of his own. But watching Gladio slowly burn himself out, watching him waste away out of hurt stubbornness, that’s a path Cor could only see ending in carnage.  

(Thinking of carrying on without Gladio birthed the same kind of images in his mind.)

Cor had been forced to make a lot of tough decisions throughout his long career, some that, if wrong, would had borne unimaginably dire consequences. But this one call had been the hardest he’d ever had to make.

He’d bought a small cottage, buried deep in the woods, far, far away from everything that looked even remotely like civilisation, and told Gladio that this was where they were headed, for as long as they would need, forever not being out of the question.

‘No,’ is all Gladio had been able to say, entirely too fast, too hurt from the simple thought, failing to convince Cor he hadn’t struck the rawest of nerves.

‘You have no say in this,’ Cor had whispered, going against every instinct, every speck of that trust that had been the only solid foundation underneath the unruly pile of stolen moments and abandoned affection they’d scrounged up throughout the years of darkness.

‘You have no right,’ he’d spat, then tried to walk away.

Cor hadn’t let him.

(It would have been the last time, it’d dawned on him then, if he had.)

‘You’ll die here,’ he’d said, because now wasn’t the time to mince words, because the only way to get him to stop was to lay everything bare, right then and there. ‘This… This is killing you, Gladio. I can’t…’ a pause as Gladio had hanged onto his every word, like he’d wanted to hear them for so long, but wouldn’t allow himself to entertain the idea. ‘We need to get you out of here.’

The look Gladio had given him, then, eyes wide and ablaze, filled with something so raw and chaotic and broken, even Cor had struggled to hold his gaze, had pierced through Cor like an arrow, swift and unbearably painful.

But he hadn’t flinched.

He had no choice.  

They were packed up and ready to go the next day.

*

They don’t talk about the last time Gladio and Ignis spoke.

They don’t talk about the way Ignis had stormed in, a reluctant Prompto in tow, the minute he’d heard Gladio had resigned as Captain of the Kingsglaive.

They don’t talk about the screaming, the angry tears, the strain in Ignis’ voice, the exhaustion in Gladio’s. They don’t talk about the accusations, flailed around all too carelessly for Cor’s liking, about Ignis’ words like rusted daggers, about Gladio’s shallow breaths, angry and wounded and too tired to pick up the fight. There’d been no fire left in him, and that, too, had added to Ignis’ fury; that he’d _dared_ giving up, that he’d let Cor talk him into letting go of what they’d been pouring every drop of blood, sweat and tears left in them into.  

They don’t talk about the way Cor had to intervene (like he’d always tried to avoid doing), the way he had to pick Gladio’s fight for him, about the way he got between the two of them, the way Prompto had snapped out of his panicked haze and helped him, pulling at Ignis’ arm with a more forceful grip than Cor had thought he had in him, a silent plea to back down, to listen to reason, to understand what was really going on.

(They don’t talk about the look in Prompto’s eyes when he’d seen Gladio, so broken and defeated, about the way he understood immediately why they needed to leave. Cor doesn’t talk about the private words they had over the phone, a week or so after the fact, about Prompto’s loss on what to do, about his suspicion that Ignis’ indignation was merely a front, that he’d been so personally insulted because he envied the out Cor had so kindly given Gladio, because he desperately needed the same rest, but insisted on holding onto the past with shaking fists and broken fingers.)

(They don’t talk about Prompto’s goodbyes, warm and affectionate despite the ruins he’d been standing in the middle of. They don’t talk about the way Ignis had walked out before Prompto could finish wiping away hushed tears. They don’t talk about the way Gladio had lingered into Prompto’s arms, as if finally registering that this was goodbye, for who knows how long.)

(They don’t talk about the drive to their new house (not yet a home; it wouldn’t be for at least another year), don’t talk about the continuous stream of tears running down Gladio’s cheeks, about Cor’s hand on his thigh the entire time, reminding him that he was there, reminding him that this was for the best.)

They don’t talk about Ignis, because Cor remembers in vivid details the eruption he caused the last time he tried. He knows, deep down, that it’s gnawing at Gladio, that their unfinished business has been weighing on him, even more so now that his head is clearer, lighter than it used to be.

That’s why it had comes as a surprise, when Ignis’ name escapes Gladio’s lips over lunch, one late summer day.

‘Have you… have you heard anything about Ignis? Since…’

The fuel runs out before his sentence does. Cor has a feeling he’s been mulling it over for far longer than he wants the nonchalance in his tone to imply, but doesn’t make light of it.

It’s been almost a year since they last spoke, and five months or so since Ignis’ name was last mentioned.

A deep breath, a heavy exhale, a second to gather his bearings, small, careful steps on a hill that’s been far too slippery in the recent past.

(He’s aware that there’s no need for such caution, that Gladio wouldn’t have brought it up if he hadn’t been ready to hear what Cor has to say, but while Cor hates platitudes, he’s come to acknowledge that there’s truth to what they say about old habits.)

‘I have,’ he simply says. A pause, then, heavy, too choked up, and Cor wishes he weren’t so wary of his reaction.

(Old habits.)

Gladio looks up slowly, blinks twice for good measure, but Cor is relieved to see the slowly rising magma that usually accompanies those taboo topics is nowhere to be found. He sees confusion, instead, like Cor just threw a wrench in the words he’d so carefully planned.

‘Wha—When?’

‘A few months ago. Back when…’

_Back when you couldn’t have handled it, back when you were at war with too many ghosts to allow the living ones anywhere near you._

‘Oh.’

‘He came with Prompto. They… he wanted to see you. I told him no.’

He wonders, for the brief second during which Gladio takes in this new information, if he made the right call, back then.

But then he remembers how Gladio had disappeared for almost two weeks, the longest he’d ever gone, after Cor had tried to broach the subject. He remembers his worry, Gladio’s anger, remembers the long silences upon his return, the heaviest they’d ever weighed on them.

‘…Thank you,’ Gladio simply says.

It’s being revealed to Gladio in small bits and pieces, the extent of Cor’s patience and kindness, during the stretch where he himself had neither to spare, of all the things he’s done for Gladio, quietly, under his radar, careful not to be noticed; of all the steady, unpresuming ways Cor has worked to make sure Gladio had a home, a life to come back to, when the time would come.  

Cor doesn’t let him apologise, so Gladio thanks him, instead, often and in all the ways he can think of.

(With fingers and lips and hitched breaths; with faint smiles and brushed shoulders, and silences that are peaceful rather than the kind that follows the cocking of a gun, and a glint in his eyes that has nothing to do with the fast cooling embers that used to look back at Cor.)

That, Cor will gladly take, for as long as Gladio will let him.

‘How was he?’ Gladio says after a long pause. ‘They, how were they?’

‘Good.’ A beat. ‘Better.’

*

_Cor is in the garden, trying to keep hands and mind busy by tackling the nasty patch of weeds that keep rearing their ugly head no matter what he tries, when he hears the sound of the engine coming from the dirt road and towards the house. He tries to shut down the voices reminding him with deafening urgency that he isn’t expecting anyone other than Gladio, who left on his bike and without a word, that this unannounced visitor might very well be here bearing news Cor isn’t sure he’ll be able to handle._

_He walks up to the front of the house (not running, he makes a very pointed effort not to run), and finds an old forest-green pickup truck he’s never seen before, but the head and arm sticking out of the open window, with buzz cut blond hair, piercing blue eyes surrounded by freckles that seem to have come back with a vengeance after years of dormancy, this he knows._

_‘…Argentum?’_

_‘Hey Marshal!’ he shouts, a warm smile on his lips as Cor walks up to him (and he’s surprised at the realisation that the title doesn’t seem to sting as much as it used to, that it amuses him, in some strange sort of way, like an old inside joke he’d all but forgotten about). ‘Missed me?’_

_‘I… wouldn’t exactly say that,’ he deadpans, and Prompto laughs at the remark, easy and familiar, almost familial, a sensation Cor hasn’t felt in many moons. ‘How… how did you find this place?’_

_‘Had to do some bribing, I won’t lie,’ Prompto says with a nervous laugh. ‘I hope you guys don’t mind?’_

_‘Sure,’ Cor says with a quiet chuckle, because he’s already made the trip, and Cor wouldn’t have the heart to send him back. ‘I hope Iris is well.’_

_‘She’s great, she says hi,’ Prompto beams, opening the door to stand closer to him, and that’s when Cor notices he didn’t come alone. ‘We, um… Ignis wanted to talk to you,’ Prompto says in a hushed tone, but Cor’s eyes are hooked on Ignis, pointedly facing straight ahead, his fists balled up, tense against his thighs._

_(He wonders, right then and there, how many times they’ve tried to make this very trip, how many times Ignis has thought he was ready, how many times he’s made Prompto turn the car around before they could reach their destination.)_

_‘Come in,’ Cor simply says, more to Ignis than Prompto, ‘when you’re ready.’_

_Minutes feel like days as Cor leans against the frame of the front door, waiting for the two men to come in, long moments during which he watches Ignis stands by the car, hands in Prompto’s, listening carefully to the words Prompto is saying, nodding along, his expression slowly softening up, a faint smile appearing on his lips at long last. He nods with a bit more conviction, presses his lips against Prompto’s and together, they make their way to Cor, Prompto’s hand a gentle guide in the curve of Ignis’ lower-back._

(They made it back, _Cor catches himself thinking. They made it, and he isn’t sure if it’s pride or envy he feels watching them walk towards him in a perfect rhythm.)_

_Cor follows them into the house, pointing vaguely towards the table as he pulls a chair for himself, waiting for the two men to do the same. But only Ignis does, Prompto deciding to leave the two of them alone, walking out of the house and towards the lake after parting a shy smile for Cor, closing the door behind him quietly, like he was never there._

_This concerns Ignis and himself only._

_‘Hello Marshal,’ Ignis finally says, his voice as dim and tentative as it had been ablaze and biting the last time they spoke; as timid now as he’d been so furiously obstinate then._

_‘What owes me this pleasure?’ Cor asks, and wishes his guard wouldn’t go up so easily, wishes the remnants of venom from Ignis’ last bite wouldn’t resurface so readily. He knows it’s unreasonable to hold grudges, this one more than most, he knows._

_‘An apology. And a request.’_

_Cor stands up from his chair calmly, makes his way to the sink to fill up the nearest cup, to keep his mind occupied, to give his hands something to clench onto so that he doesn’t act on his first instinct to flat out reject whatever it is Ignis came here to say._

_He looks at him in silence, really looks at him, sitting in his chair, back upright but with none of the tension that used to tug at his shoulders and around his neck. Cor feels all of his resentment evaporate then, at the sight of his naked hands entangled on top of the table (and he can’t recall the last time he even saw Ignis’ hands without gloves), of his hair, pulled back without much precision, like it was the work of the wind from the car’s open window, like it hasn’t seen hair gel or a comb for days. Cor feels his reluctance vanish at the realisation that this isn’t the man he once knew, not the man he’d had to raise his voice at, whose rancorous fury he’d had to shield Gladio from, that this is the look of a man who’s been wandering, free of the anxiety of a destination, who’s accepted to share his burden, who’s accepted that leaps of faith don’t always end in tragedy._

_‘I’m listening,’ Cor finally says, with a deep sigh and a heavy palm rubbing at each of his eyes in calculated succession._

_‘I apologize,’ Ignis says, voice barely more than a whisper, ‘for my behaviour. I apologize for the way I tried to get in the way of what was best for Gladio. I… I was hurt. And jealous, I suppose, though I wasn’t in a state to make much sense of anyone’s feelings, let alone my own. I made things… difficult, more than they already were, for you and Gladio both, and I am deeply sorry. And I also want to apologise for… the way we had to part, and for staying quiet for so long. I’m aware this visit is long overdue.’_

It’s too soon still _, Cor doesn’t say. ‘We were all on edge,’ he murmurs instead._

_‘Still.’_

_‘Thank you,’ Cor says after taking a long sip out of his cup. It’s been almost a lifetime since he last deemed any offered olive branch worth accepting, but he’s willing to believe as much this time, because he’s tired, and alone, and never has he felt the need to have someone on his side more than he does now, with Gladio impossible to reach, impossible to track, impossible to follow, making it hard, oh so hard to keep reaching for his hand._

_‘I mean every word, Marshal.’_

_‘I accept your apology,’ he says, catching the faint, subdued smile on Ignis’ lips as he pronounces the words._

_‘Thank you.’_

_‘And the request?’ he asks for good measure, despite his hunch that he knows what’s coming._

_‘Ah, yes,’ Ignis says, readjusting himself on his chair. ‘Would you accept to take me to Gladio, so that I may talk to him as well?’_

_‘No.’_

_The word shoots out of him before he can think of a more delicate way to refuse, a bullet that hits Ignis right through the chest, too fast, too deadly, too final._

_‘…I see. I’m—’_

_‘He’s not…’ Cor interrupts, his voice more forceful than he’d intended, ‘… he’s not ready, Ignis.’_

_‘Has he said as much?’_

_Cor isn’t quite sure what to say to that. He isn’t sure how to explain it to Ignis, just how lost Gladio seems to be, just how silent, distant he’s growing with each passing day, how every step that Cor manages to drag Gladio through inevitably recoils, setting them back ten paces each time. Cor isn’t sure how to explain that he’s spending every ounce of energy he has left in him to bring him home, that everything is hanging by a thread, that he’s not sure how long he will last before everything comes crashing down, before he loses Gladio for good._

_‘He hasn’t been saying much, lately.’_

_A beat, as the meaning behind Cor’s choice of words sinks in._

_‘Is there anything I can do to help?’_

_‘Stay away,’ Cor sighs, wishing he had anything left in him for minced words and gentleness, ‘for the time being. I can try to bring it up, but I can’t promise much.’_

_‘I understand. Thank you, Cor. Truly.’_

_(They stick around for a few hours, after the heaviest of the weights has finally been dropped, catching up in a conversation that surprises Cor in it’s lightness. When they do leave, Gladio is still nowhere to be found (nothing surprising, as far as Cor is concerned, despite the incessant gnawing in the pit of his stomach), and Cor watches from the porch as Prompto walks Ignis to his side of the car, not because he needs the help, but because it’s the kind of sweet gestures that raises an embarrassed chuckle out of Ignis, that cracks a faint smile across both of their lips. He watches them drive away, watches the dust settle until he’s alone again, Gladio still nowhere to be found, alone with his thoughts and the corrosion in the pit of his stomach.)_

*

Gladio stands like he’s been shocked the second the forest-green pickup truck appears at the end of the narrow road. It’s been a long time since Cor has seen him so on edge, so eager, so hopeful.

They don’t talk about a lot of things, but that fated phone call to Ignis, they did talk about at length. Talked about all that it entailed, talked about all the different ways things could go wrong (and Gladio had found fewer and fewer as time and words passed). They talked until the only remaining conclusion was that it needed to be done, and that this was something Gladio needed to do on his own.

(Cor hadn’t hesitated to accept, however, when Gladio had asked, a boyish hesitation in the rumbling bass of his voice, if he’d accompany him to this reunion, if he’d accept to be at his side through this step that felt more like a leap.

Cor had accepted the way living beings accept to breathe, inherently, unquestionably.)

The truck parks at the other end of the lot (a buffer, perhaps, a deep breath before the long awaited conclusion), and when the two doors open, Gladio’s hand finds Cor’s before he has time to remember himself. Cor huffs gently, gives it a tight squeeze, then lets it go gently along Gladio’s lap. He stands, then, as tall as his nerves will allow, eyes closed as he counts backwards from ten.

Then he moves.

(Then he leaps.)

He takes the first few steps the way a newborn learns to trust, cautious and guarded and wary, but the questions and the doubts shed off his back as he closes the distance between himself and the other two men,

Gladio doesn’t talk as he walks up to Ignis, doesn’t talk as a quivering hand slowly finds Ignis’ shoulder, doesn’t talk when Ignis says his name, doesn’t talk as the two of them collapse in each other’s arms, two sobbing messes in the middle of the parking lot

(That’s all it takes. That’s all they need.)

Cor doesn’t talk as Prompto comes and waits at his side, wiping away runaway tears with the back of his hand, cheeks and tip of his nose a heartfelt shade of red. Cor shoves him with his shoulder, light and playful, and he doesn’t talk, still, but he’s not sure he would find the usual steadiness of his voice, if he did.

Gladio has made it back.

The road he walked was long and winding and slippery and strewed with sinkholes and broken bridges carried away by the storm, but he made it back.

They made it back.

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to the wonderful [Aliatori](https://twitter.com/AliatoriEra) and [Chiii](https://twitter.com/chi_peppers) for coming up with pretty much the entire content of this fic many, many moons ago, I KINDA TOOK IT AND RAN I HOPE Y'ALL DON'T MIND ♥ 
> 
> Comments and kudos are, as always, wildly appreciated ♥  
> (come yell at me on [tumblr](https://thelegendarynoctgar.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/RoadsOfTrial)!)


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